


half sick of shadows

by esmeraldablazingsky



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Artaresto has a horrible time all around, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, The Helcaraxe, hurt/honestly very little comfort and then more hurt, more characters but they are minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 09:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmeraldablazingsky/pseuds/esmeraldablazingsky
Summary: There was nothing but ice.





	half sick of shadows

There was nothing but ice. 

Darkness, maybe, snow and water and frozen bodies, but they hardly counted. Artaresto had dragged his feet through miserable, unreliable terrain for as long as he cared to and longer, but it had not let up in the least, and he clung with grim and hopeless determination to the edge of sanity. 

He was not a particularly cheerful person at the best of times— quiet, perhaps, and agreeable, but not optimistic— and strife and death and endless winter had done nothing for his mood except perhaps plunge it through the earth into the pits of Angamando. 

Artaresto had not even wanted to leave, and yet he was here, longing almost for the heat of the burning ships they’d seen in the distance. Perhaps being charred to an unrecognizable heap of cinders wouldn’t be so bad. 

He shook his head violently to get rid of the thought, kicking a chunk of ice out of the way and biting his lip at the sudden stinging pain in his foot. No. No. He did not want to burn. 

_But maybe freezing would be okay,_ hissed a voice in the back of his mind. _Relatively painless. Get lost, lie down in the snow. They may not even ever find your body._

Artaresto groaned through clenched teeth. 

_I do not want to hear the logic behind letting myself freeze to death, thank you,_ he told himself. _I know full well that I could be dead before I wake if I fall asleep in the right place. I don’t need to be reminded._

He hadn’t told anyone about the constant inner monologue that slowed his feet and came with the everlasting dark to whisper hopelessness in his ears. He didn’t see the point, really. There was nothing to be done but grit his teeth and push on. 

The wind blowing from up ahead carried a voice, raised high and defiant in a song of warmth and strength. Probably Artanís, or maybe Findaráto. Artaresto would have joined their chants more often, but he feared that his darkness would reach into his voice and corrupt the music, and so he kept his mouth shut. 

The songs helped some to raise his spirits from icy rock bottom, but only a little bit. It was not the same as real light or heat or happiness, and Artaresto was all too aware of that fact. Maybe Mandos—

“I do not want to die,” said Artaresto out loud. The wind swallowed his words before they could reach anyone else, for which he was grateful. And it was true; he did not, if only to convince himself that he harbored some measure of strength inside him. Now if only he could find a real reason, something more worthwhile. 

Artaresto picked up his pace, approaching the small knot of people that was Turukáno’s retinue. He caught sight of a ribbon of golden hair that had come out of the hood of its bearer, who carried a girl bundled in layers of cloth and fur. 

For a moment, he wondered why Artanís was carrying a child, before he blinked snow out of his eyes and realized he was in fact looking at Elenwë. 

He trudged up beside her, keeping his head down against the driving wind, until she noticed his presence and looked up over past Itarillë’s shoulder. 

“Artaresto?” she said, voice weak. Her gloved hands were clenched in the back of her daughter’s coat. 

“It’s me,” confirmed Artaresto. “Can I offer to carry Itarillë for a while? I’ll stay right nearby.”

“Thank you,” murmured Elenwë. “If I can get my hands unfrozen from her coat…” she paused to do just that, then added, “Any reason why?”

 _There is no nice way to say “I need an excuse not to die,_ thought Artaresto grimly to himself. 

“I’d like to be doing something,” he said instead, rather lamely as far as he was concerned. “And… you look tired.” 

“Thank you,” Elenwë repeated. She even managed a smile as she held her daughter out to Artaresto, and it made his heart thaw just a little bit. 

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbled. 

Itarillë was not particularly heavy, but neither was she light. She let Artaresto hold her without complaint, curling in against him and pressing her face into his shoulder. 

“Hello, Itarillë,” said Artaresto. “Okay there?” 

“Hardly,” said Itarillë fiercely. “I hate the Ice.”

“You and I both,” said Artaresto. He held Itarillë tighter. Her vehemence struck enough courage into him to banish the desire to give up with its flames, and he walked on at Elenwë’s side. 

After what seemed an interminable amount of time, he gave Itarillë back to her mother and spent some time helping Arakáno pull a sledge. Sweat froze on Artaresto’s skin, and his body cried out at the strain that was not made up for by scant meals, but exertion drove all thoughts from his mind and for that he was glad. 

But when they stopped to rest… 

Artaresto shivered in the dark. Vicious, crystalline powder thrown up by the wind filled the air, forming a fine mist that distorted any light and stung exposed skin like a thousand needles. The unearthly howling of freezing gales echoed over the landscape, lending sound to the shadows and mist and darkness. 

It was always so much worse when everyone was asleep. 

The ghostly silver-gold of Angaráto’s hair shone out from below his fur cap. He was sleeping, pressed close to his siblings. There was a space for Artaresto, but he was not in it— he was still awake, after all, and saw no point in waking others with his restlessness. 

He glanced up in shock, having seen movement in the darkness. Pale hair, gleaming even in the absence of the light of the Trees. Artaresto counted again— Findaráto, Angaráto, Aikanáro, Artanís. Then who was out in the cold? Elenwë? Itarillë? If it was one of them… 

Artaresto staggered to his feet, stiff legs crying out at the movement. If someone was out in the snow alone, and lost the encampment, they would likely die. He had to bring them back. 

He pulled his coat tight around him and stepped past his father, aunt, and uncles in pursuit of the lost individual. 

“Come back,” he called, but his voice was lost in the wind. “Which camp are you from? There’s safety over here. Hello?” 

The bright flash of gold was still visible, retreating into stormy oblivion. Artaresto stumbled on numb feet as he chased after whoever it was, his voice never quite strong enough to reach them. He wasn’t sure where he was anymore. Maybe if he turned straight back, he’d return to the camp. But for now, for now— 

“Please!” he cried. The figure stopped. Up close, it was wearing pale blue clothing that bled into the dimness of the snow and ice. No coat, Artaresto realized. What was this person doing? How were they not dead? 

“Artaresto,” it said, and turned. Artaresto flinched backwards, his heart leaping into his throat. Dread flooded him, but he wasn’t sure why. After all, it was only—

 _“Grandfather?”_

Arafinwë’s expression could loosely have been called a smile, but it was blank as the frozen surface beneath his feet. Artaresto felt his pulse start to race. _Grandfather didn’t come with us onto the Ice. He’s not here. And he doesn’t smile like that, oh, Valar, he doesn’t, let me move let me move let me move—_

Artaresto tore himself away from where he had been rooted to the spot with terror, turned around, and realized he didn’t know where he was. He was afraid to look back and see Arafinwë’s awful empty visage, afraid to plunge forwards and lose himself in an endless storm, afraid to hear silent footsteps dogging him across the Ice. Afraid, afraid, afraid, _what kind of prince are you, Artaresto,_ but he couldn’t just have left it alone in the first place. 

He’d gone to bring back someone who was lost, and now he was lost himself. 

There was the flicker of a fire out of the corner of his eye, but he did not chase it, certain that he would find only horror and humiliation. The light was getting closer. Artaresto backed away, forcing himself not to look where the phantom of Arafinwë had been. Closer, and yet closer. 

“Artaresto?” 

His name was called again. He shut his eyes and willed himself to take a deep breath, the freezing air stinging his throat but setting his fear in ice. 

“Artaresto!” It was urgent now. Artaresto cursed himself for not having had the foresight to bring a weapon. There were terrible things out on the Ice, and he was alone, and unarmed. 

“I will not be taken by wraiths,” he said, trying to sound as if he had any measure of certainty. 

“No, you will not,” agreed the voice. “What are you doing out here?” 

Artaresto opened his eyes. Elenwë was there, with Arakáno, who was holding the torch that Artaresto had seen through the mist. 

“I saw someone lost in the snow,” he said weakly. “And I… I tried to bring them back, but…” 

“Well, we’re bringing _you_ back now,” said Arakáno. “Come on. It isn’t as if we don’t have sleeping room for you. Another presence might actually help with the cold.” 

“What of the other person?” asked Elenwë as they turned towards the Nolofinwëan encampment, with its few still-burning lights cutting through the dark. 

“Not a person,” Artaresto managed. 

“Oh,” said Elenwë, and left it at that. Artaresto put his head down against the wind and focused on the harsh rhythm of his own breathing, trying to wrestle it back down to a normal speed. He let Elenwë lead him to where Itarillë slept bundled up in Turukáno’s arms, and where the other Nolofinwëans were wrapped in various pelts nearby. 

“Sleep,” said Arakáno. “We’ll send word that you’re safe when it’s convenient and nobody will die doing it.” 

“Okay,” whispered Artaresto. He forced a _thank you_ through the lump in his throat, at which Arakáno nodded. 

“Of course,” he said, the look on his face softening. “It’s like you said. We saw you lost, and we couldn’t just stand by.” That said, Arakáno rolled over onto his side and curled up to sleep. Artaresto bit back the observation that Arakáno and Elenwë had succeeded, while he himself had only gotten more lost. He might as well try and sleep and fulfill at least one thing that was asked of him. 

“Artaresto?” asked Elenwë. 

“Yes?” 

“Come here,” she said. “You’ll freeze, sleeping alone like that.” 

_And you’ll never have to bring me back from the ice again,_ thought Artaresto. But Elenwë beckoned again, and he sighed and moved closer. 

“What was it that you saw?” asked Elenwë. 

“I saw—” Artaresto took a shaky breath through clenched teeth and made himself continue. “I _thought_ I saw my grandfather.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Elenwë. Artaresto felt her arm around his shoulders, and put all his willpower into making sure their shaking wasn’t noticeable. 

“You’re safe now,” said Elenwë. “Alright? So sleep, Artaresto. A clear head will help you in the end.” 

And Artaresto did sleep, although he stayed awake and shivering for some time before he could, staring into the dark with a mind full of ghosts and a body wracked with silent sobs. 

“I can tell Findaráto you’re staying with us if you want,” said Arakáno when everyone was awake and stirring. 

“You don’t have to,” said Artaresto. “I can just go back.” 

“Doesn’t sound like you want to,” said Arakáno without meeting his eyes. “Am I right?” 

Artaresto sighed. 

“I don’t know what I want,” he said. 

“Then stay,” said Arakáno. “It’s easier.” 

It was hard to argue with Arakáno’s blunt, practical manner, and Artaresto suspected that he’d been right, anyway. The prospect of returning to his family and enduring their questions about the previous night, or even worse, a day of worried silence, did not particularly enchant him. So he stayed. 

“Please let me carry Itarillë again,” said Artaresto. He couldn’t quite keep the desperation from his voice, or at least that was what Elenwë’s expression suggested. 

“Okay, if you truly insist. I thank you for your generosity,” she said. “Are you alright? You look pale.”

“Everyone’s pale right now. We haven’t had light in too long.” 

“Not physically. Well, yes, physically, but also in your mind,” said Elenwë. “Like you’re fading. I can feel it. You don’t want to go closer to the Singing? It might help.” 

Artaresto didn’t know how to explain the fear of darkness, of contagion that would spread from his heart into the ribbons of song woven by his family into the air. He didn’t know how to say that what kept him going was a cold resignation quite different from the determination driving the others, and that he was afraid of what it might do. 

“I don’t know,” he said. Elenwë nodded. 

“You had a rough night,” she said, and then her eyes unfocused, as if she were thinking. 

“I know,” said Elenwë after a few moments, and the little smile on her face as she turned to look at Artaresto was one that he had seen on Itarillë’s countless times. “I’ll Sing you something of your own.” 

To his surprise and discomfort, Artaresto found himself choking back tears. He thought that maybe Elenwë sensed more than she let on about what troubled him, and now she was offering to _help,_ and—

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I— you don’t have to, but. Thank you, Elenwë.” 

“I think people forget,” said Elenwë, “how young you are.” She looked at Itarillë, reached over to run her fingers through her daughter’s hair, and sighed. “You’re closer to Itarillë than to myself, or to Turukáno, but it’s so very easy to think of you on Findaráto’s level.” 

“I’m nowhere _near_ Findaráto’s level.” 

“I know you don’t think so,” said Elenwë. She withdrew her hand, but not all the way— just far enough to pat Artaresto’s shoulder before her arm fell again to rest at her side. 

A few moments later, her voice cut through the whistling wind again, but this time as sweet melody rather than words. The Song filled Artaresto’s body with soft curls of warmth, like the memory of Laurelin’s light as it began to overtake Telperion’s. It made the snow feel a little less heavy as Artaresto dragged his boots through it, keeping Itarillë close to his chest. It felt like a long time before Elenwë stopped singing, and for that Artaresto was grateful beyond measure. 

_“Thank_ you.” 

“Of course,” said Elenwë. Artaresto gave her some of his food when they next stopped to rest— she didn’t notice, and he was quietly glad that she had not. He got the impression that she would insist that he eat it, but Singing took energy, and it was the least he could do. Well, outside of giving Itarillë his scarf, or carrying things when it was an option, or— 

Still. It was the least he could do, in return for the warmth that stayed dancing across his palms for hours after the Song had ended. 

After a few more days, Artaresto had all but stopped walking with his own family in favor of accompanying Elenwë and adjacent groups. It was easier, somehow, to be among people who did not know him. He’d go back at some point. Or at least he was planning to. But there was more he could do for Itarillë’s family than his own, and it was a welcome barrier against ever-descending spirals of lonely thought. 

It was effectively his role, now, to carry Itarillë when the terrain was rough or she was too exhausted to go on. And when Turukáno preferred to hold his daughter himself, Artaresto fell into step with Arakáno, helping him drag supplies in mostly-silent companionship. 

It gave him very little time to think about himself, or about the odd sounds and flickering visions that came in the night, and Artaresto hoped it would continue that way. 

They stopped all of a sudden on a large patch of ice that was oddly more blue-green than white, and Artaresto looked up in surprise to see Findekáno speaking to Turukáno a short distance ahead before turning to face his people. 

“We seem to have lost our way,” he said. 

“Shocking,” someone muttered. Findekáno didn’t seem to hear it, or if he did, he didn’t react. 

“My father, my siblings, and I are going to cross that ridge—” he gestured to a looming chunk of ice in the distance— “and see what’s there, and then we’ll come back. It won’t take long.” He met Artaresto’s eyes over the short distance separating them and said “keep watch, would you?” 

“Of course,” said Artaresto. He bowed awkwardly to Findekáno— he probably didn’t have to, but Findekáno had always seemed so much more kingly than Artaresto felt he would ever be. 

“Stay with them,” said Turukáno, indicating Elenwë and Itarillë. 

“I’ll make sure they’re safe,” said Artaresto with as much conviction as he could. 

And like that, he was left standing a little ways away from the main body of the Nolofinwean host, watching the advance party vanish into the snow. 

“They’ll be alright,” said Elenwë, with a confidence that Artaresto wished he could match. He had the sudden urge to ask _will we?_ But chose to hold his tongue. Saying such things where the Ice could hear was never a good idea. 

Artaresto kept watch as he had been asked, but nothing seemed to be happening, despite his fears. The wind had died down a little bit, and there was some soft murmuring among the host as they bunched together to keep warm and rest. 

And then there was an awful groaning, crunching sound, and Artaresto spun around in a circle as he tried to locate its source. 

“Back up!” he shouted, stumbling as he tried to do so himself, and not a moment too soon. Itarillë and Elenwë went the other way, and suddenly the ice split open between them, revealing a nasty drop and at the bottom, water. 

Artaresto looked up. Somewhere in the near distance, the crack seemed to end, but where he stood, it was wide enough that a jump would be risky. 

“Did anyone fall?” he called. 

“Nobody,” was the response. Artaresto let out a breath in relief. Of course the moment he had any responsibility, something like this happened… 

“Elenwë—” he began, intending to apologize. 

“It’s okay,” said Elenwë. “We’ll walk around, it’s alright.”

There was another horrible snapping sound. Artaresto looked up and saw the other side of Itarillë and Elenwë’s ice floe begin to break away as well, great chunks of ice falling into the sea. 

“I suppose not,” murmured Elenwë. A second crack was forming, the two intersecting breaks creating an island that began to float away. 

And Elenwë and Itarillë were on the other side. 

Artaresto’s blood ran cold with panic. Itarillë backed up; Elenwë was telling her to jump before it was too late. 

_A few moments and they’ll be too far to reach, drifting out into the ocean. They’ll starve if they don’t freeze if they don’t fall. I’m not sure which is worse. Itarillë, Elenwë, Itarillë—_

Artaresto took hold of Itarillë first and pulled her across the ever-widening gap as she jumped. When she was safely behind him, he reached for Elenwë, grabbed her hand, felt her leap across and fall, fall— 

Elenwë’s body slammed against the ice and she cried out at the impact, but she was there, one hand held tightly in Artaresto’s and the other searching for purchase on the newly broken cliff. 

Artaresto felt himself slipping forwards. Elenwë clawed at the ice, sharp edges tearing her glove away and shredding the palm underneath. 

“Hold on,” begged Artaresto. 

“I’m trying,” said Elenwë desperately. Her hand in the remaining glove tightened its grip, but cold and dark and hunger had taken its toll on her strength, and her weight was threatening to pull Artaresto over, and Itarillë— 

A brief glance behind revealed Itarillë’s terrified face, her hands in their unwieldy mittens clutching at the end of Artaresto’s coat. If he fell, and if she didn’t let go in time, she would die too. Artaresto realized this with sudden clarity cold as the air around him. 

Elenwë’s grip failed, her blood smeared on the sheer face of the treacherous ice. Artaresto staggered, lurched perilously close to the edge, tried to catch her, and ran through a thousand kinds of fear in a moment as Elenwë’s glove slipped off in his hand. 

Itarillë shrieked. Elenwë did not. The rush of air stole the breath from her lungs as she fell, and her wide eyes met Artaresto’s in a last glance before she was swallowed by the icy, dark water below. 

Itarillë was still screaming. Artaresto barely heard her through the pounding of his own heart in his ears. For a moment he entertained the wild notion of diving in after Elenwë, but no, no, there was nothing he could do. The sodden layers of her clothing would drag her down, the cold and the water would sap her strength, and Elenwë would return to Mandos before Artaresto could even think straight again. 

He backed away from the brink, flinging an arm out to push Itarillë along with. She was shaking violently, her breath coming fast and tears starting to freeze at the corner of her eyes, and Artaresto turned to bundle her into his cloak. He wanted desperately to say something to comfort her, anything at all to be useful, but there was nothing. 

He wasn’t sure how long it was before he heard voices and realized that others had congregated around himself and Itarillë. They had found a long way around the brand-new yawning crevasse in the ice and were now safely on the correct side. 

Except for Elenwë. 

_What am I going to tell Turukáno? I may have saved Itarillë, but what difference does that make? I should have, should have saved them both. Oh, Valar, what will I say?_

“They’re back!” someone called. Itarillë was crying. Someone else was crying as well. Artaresto stayed crouched with his arms around her. He wasn’t sure he could move if he tried. 

“Artaresto?!” 

It sounded like Írissë’s voice. Turukáno was probably not far behind. 

“What happened?” That time it was Findekáno. Someone answered him, saying that the ice had split open, and then again, right beneath Artaresto, Itarillë, and— and— the voice trailed off, and Artaresto shut his eyes and braced himself. 

“And _who?”_

Turukáno had arrived. The response was a barely audible, terror-stricken mumble. 

Turukáno screamed. 

It was a terrible sound, raw and bleeding with the full measure of his grief and fury, and broken off at the end with a sob. 

He whirled on Artaresto, cold flame blazing in hollow eyes, and Artaresto flinched. 

“You saw this happen,” said Turukáno hoarsely. 

Artaresto slowly raised his right hand, in which he still clutched Elenwë’s single glove. He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn’t find the words, and even if he could have, the awful voice of the wind seemed to echo Turukáno’s unsaid accusation. Your fault, your fault, your fault. 

He couldn’t help but heed it. There was nothing else to listen to save Itarillë’s frightened sobbing and the imaginary ringing echo of Turukáno’s cry. 

“You said you’d keep them safe,” Turukáno was saying, half to himself. Artaresto opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He had. He had promised. 

“He tried, Atya,” said Itarillë unexpectedly, raising her head from Artaresto’s chest. 

“Come here, Itarillë,” said Turukáno as steadily as he could manage. Artaresto unfolded himself so that Itarillë could run to the protection of her father’s arms. Turukáno knelt, held Itarillë to his chest, buried his face in the fur of her oversized cloak. He took one ragged breath, and another, and Itarillë spoke again in a whisper. 

“Please don’t hurt him.” 

Turukáno sighed and kissed his daughter’s forehead. 

“I will not,” he said heavily. “We have lost enough. _I_ have—” he cut himself off with another sob, and there was quiet except for Findekáno’s distant voice raised high over the wind as he marshaled the rest of the frightened people. 

Artaresto stood by himself, cold down to his bones from shock and guilt and the urge to curl into a tiny ball on the ice and never unroll. But he couldn’t, no matter how strongly he felt that it was all he deserved for being weak, for being not enough, for being alive when Elenwë was no longer. 

He couldn’t. Turukáno was right— they’d lost enough, and above the sick tide of self-loathing threatening to overwhelm him, Artaresto knew that his own death would only hurt people more. Itarillë turned her head briefly to meet his eyes, and Artaresto gritted his teeth and approached. 

“This is not an Oath, but it is a promise I will try to keep,” said Artaresto, kneeling before Itarillë, who extricated herself from Turukáno’s hold to face him. “Until we see light again, until we are warm and you are safe, I will not die. I could not save Elenwë, but I will not lose myself to this torment, if you only ask it of me.” 

“I do,” said Itarillë. “Don’t die, don’t die, please.” She hugged him tightly, and Artaresto felt Turukáno’s gaze on him as Itarillë sobbed into his neck. 

_This is my reason not to let go,_ he thought. _And it is the only thing I could possibly do that would begin to make up for the help Elenwë gave me._

And so all the frost at the corners of Artaresto’s soul edged its way into his heart, became something cold and unshakable in his core, and within it lay the promise of determination without hope. But he did not need hope to keep his word, not when the word itself remained. 

And Artaresto kept it. 

**Author's Note:**

> if I’ve damaged your feelings I’m officially very sorry and stay tuned for hopeful future fluff and also feel free to yell at me about it lol  
> thank you for reading, in any case! <3


End file.
